Everything He Needs
by K.Y. Lowell
Summary: After trying to lose himself in pain, Noctis realizes what he really needs has been there all along. -Noctis x Prompto-


He knows the worry he'll cause, the shouting and the scared eyes and the floods of concern. The hands that touch him, the voices that demand to know what happened, the sting and stink of antiseptic fluid swabbed perhaps a little too roughly over his skin (but he'll never wince, oh no, he'll just turn his face away and pretend he doesn't feel it at all) and the inevitable sore stiffness that will plague him for perhaps a few days if he's unlucky. He knows what will happen if he walks into that room as he is, his hand to his shoulder and his skin and clothes stained red.

He knows because this is just a repeat of so many days before.

There's no use in regretting it, no use in trying to hide from their reactions, so he holds his head high and enters the room and finds himself the eye of the worried storm that is his friends. One grabs his hand, pulls it from where it covers his wound; one has procured that smelly stinging fluid he hates so much as if it was simply conjured from thin air and is now trying to strip him of his shirt; and the third - well, he's the most appreciative then, because all the third does is reach for his bloody hand and hold it very very tight and not even complain when he squeezes hard at the pain of the wound being cleaned. That hand in his gives him the courage he needs to lie right to the others' faces, to tell them blandly and without concern that he found _her_ again, that the oozing wound through his shoulder is from _her_ blade - and he knows they don't believe him for an instant but they let him think they do, swabbing and bandaging and that hand is still in his when they back away with the last scolding but gentle words leaving their tongues. He's grateful for it, and he squeezes again, more discreetly and much more gently.

That hand is still in his when he's guided to his room and made to sit on the bed, the consoling grip only loosening when the hand's owner moves to fetch a wet cloth to wash away the last of the blood, and he feels cold as he looks down at his fingers and then warm again when his head is tilted up and his vision is filled with tousled blonde hair and worried hazel eyes. No words are exchanged, just the touch of wet cloth and warm skin once his bloodied gloves are removed and somehow that makes him feel better than anything - he even manages to smile when slender fingers entwine with his own and palm presses to palm, and he thinks his heart skips a beat when he sees an answering smile and an arm wraps about him, pulls him into a hold awkward and unused to comforting yet calming that little piece of something that's still crying in his soul. They say nothing for a long while; he just lets himself be held and the other just holds him, but he soon gets that uncomfortable feeling that the peaceful silence is going to be broken and then it is, worried fingers carding through his hair as the blonde speaks for the first time - Noctis, he says, then corrects himself, tone softening in his worry - Noct, what really happened?

His voice catches as he tries to speak, seems to choke him and constrict his throat when he tries to lie again, and he knows he isn't getting away with it this time so he takes a breath that seems to knife his chest and admits the truth in a voice trembling with pain.

_I did it to myself--_ he hasn't even dared admit that to himself yet, and his eyes grow hot when the enormity of it crashes down on him.

He isn't scolded, he isn't judged. Gentle fingers just wipe away the tears that won't quite fall and soft lips cover his so he doesn't have to say any more, and he feels so grateful he can hardly breathe as he presses deeply into the kiss and lets the rest of his clothes be ever so carefully removed, lets himself be laid back against old worn sheets and touched until his body responds - and then he can stop concentrating, close his eyes and hear the rustle of the other's clothes hitting the floor and feel the warmth and friction as that thin form covers his and suddenly-slick fingers press down and _in_. He can lose track of time as those fingers move in him only to be replaced by something much larger and warmer, and then he can lose _himself_ in the heat and pressure and the sounds of shared cries muffled by breathless biting kisses. It's eternity at the same time it's only a few moments; they peak all too soon after what seems like forever and he feels that hand in his again, fingers clenching tightly to his own that return the gesture and for a single dizzying moment he has everything he needs.

That hand still holds his as they lay next to each other moments later, breathing only just calming and the heady scent of sex still in the air, the feel of a slightly calloused thumb rubbing tenderly across his knuckles soothing him into such contented drowsiness that he barely hears his name being spoken until a playful nip at his lower lip brings him fully back to consciousness. Don't do that again, Noct, he hears himself being gently scolded, feels the words in puffs of breath against his own mouth, and suddenly he's scared that he can't make that promise until that hand tightens against his and reminds him of reality. He doesn't need the pain, he doesn't need the blood, he doesn't need any of it to lose himself any longer - he has everything he needs, everything he could ever want, packaged up in messy hair and teasing eyes and a sprawl of long coltish limbs across his bed.

He smiles, closes his eyes and holds that hand tightly, the weight he's been struggling to wash away with pain finally lifting from his heart.

_...I won't,_ he says, and the relieved squeeze at his fingers lets him know he's made the right choice.


End file.
